


Held For The Price Of A Few Hundred Ordinary Lives

by BoyFuckWonderland



Category: LISA (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Animal Abuse, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Child on Child Sexual Abuse, Childhood Trauma, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emetophilia, Humiliation, M/M, Missing Scene, Omorashi, Physical Abuse, Physical Disability, Rough Sex, Trans Buzzo, Trans Dustin Armstrong, Trans Male Character, Verbal Abuse, Vomiting, Watersports, cocsa, pelvic floor dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-28
Updated: 2020-10-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27249640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoyFuckWonderland/pseuds/BoyFuckWonderland
Summary: He wasn't really sure what he was doing. Lisa had showed him some stuff similar to this, when she shoved her own fingers inside him, or begged him to do the same. Lisa was always asking him to do things, horrifying things that made his stomach turn. But she told him he liked it. She pointed out how his pussy got wet just like hers when she put one of her dad's cigarettes out on his nipple, or sliced his legs with a rusty blade she snuck from his shaving razor, and to Buzzo, it was infallible. Of course he liked it; Lisa told him he liked it and so he must because he would do anything for Lisa because he loves Lisa. He loves Lisa and he hates Brad and he hates Dustin for being Brad's prodigal son, he hates Dustin for having Brad's attention while Lisa still suffers. Had he truly forgotten the pain she went through? Nothing any of them had ever gone through, before, now, and forever onward in time for the rest of their lives, would ever compare to the pain that she went through. What she was still going through.
Relationships: Buzzo/Rando (LISA), Lisa Armstrong/Buzzo (LISA)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Held For The Price Of A Few Hundred Ordinary Lives

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: This piece contains GRAPHIC descriptions sex with of underage characters! This is a work of fiction! If you are not emotionally or physically mature enough to understand the warnings, still read this fic, and get distressed, that is NOT my problem! YOU and only you are responsible for your internet browsing experience, and that includes clicking out of potentially upsetting content. I did not force you to read this!

“Quit being such a pussy about this, Dustin. You don't want me to think you're weak anymore, right? You want me to tell you you're tough and strong and- and worthy?” Bernar- Buzzo's voice didn't mean to catch, but he didn't care because compared to how often Dusty stammers, the mistake probably wouldn't even matter. Dusty was crying like a bitch anyways, bent over at the waist on the cheap folding table that Master Armstrong would sometimes set up to put snacks out for the other kids. Donuts, soda, coffee for the older teens who wanted to prove something. Master Armstrong was a good guy, even when he sometimes showed up with bloodshot eyes and thick, gurgled voice, calling class over short and telling the kids to go home.

Today was one of those days. He didn't even bother to lock the doors to his dojo, and that proved extremely fortuitous for Buzzo. Lisa was home; his princess locked away in a tower with not one but two evil dragons shielding her, so Buzzo had to take his aggressions out in other ways. His fingers itched under the nails, and he dug them deep into the meat of Dustin's rear cheeks. His hands were shaking. Dusty was shaking too, though, and that made a part deeper inside of him, even past the layers and layers of sickness and guilt and fear, feel good. It was the part of him that Lisa put in there, or maybe just dug up to see the first hint of light in his short life. Whatever it was, deep inside, it ached and burned and made his vision blur at the edges as he pushed Dustin into the table, yanked his pants down, and was now confronted by the sight of his ass. It wasn't like he hadn't seen something similar to that, before, with Lisa, and of course himself. 

And yet it was still foreign to him. Dusty was a lot stronger than Lisa.

But if Dustin was stronger than Lisa, why did he allow himself to get pushed around? Why was he so meek, so, so, so pathetically empathetic and shy and weak. He was weak. Dustin was weak and Buzzo was strong and he needed to prove himself strong so he poked at Dusty's hole with his index finger. The taller boy jolted and tried to squirm away, but didn't even put up much of a struggle past that. It was infuriating. He pushed in, a little further, and heard a sharp inhale through teeth.

“Wuh, w-w-wait, bu- bu- Bern- Ber-” Dusty tried to get out, and Buzzo saw red. He jammed his finger in hard, past the dry resistance until it was buried to the hilt and Dusty was whimpering quietly in pain, curling his arms to bury his head between them.

“I thought. I told you to call me Buzzo. Did you forget already, Dustin?” He hissed, and curled his finger. He wasn't really sure what he was doing. Lisa had showed him some stuff similar to this, when she shoved her own fingers inside him, or begged him to do the same. Lisa was always asking him to do things, horrifying things that made his stomach turn. But she told him he liked it. She pointed out how his pussy got wet just like hers when she put one of her dad's cigarettes out on his nipple, or sliced his legs with a rusty blade she snuck from his shaving razor, and to Buzzo, it was infallible. Of course he liked it; Lisa told him he liked it and so he must because he would do anything for Lisa because he loves Lisa. He loves Lisa and he hates Brad and he hates Dustin for being Brad's prodigal son, he hates Dustin for having Brad's attention while Lisa still suffers. Had he truly forgotten the pain she went through? Nothing any of them had ever gone through, before, now, and forever onward in time for the rest of their lives, would ever compare to the pain that she went through. What she was still going through.

It made bile rise in his throat and he couldn't control his sudden rage when he pulled his finger out, and to his own surprise and anger and grief he could see Dusty was getting wet too. It only made him hate Dusty more, knowing that someone so weak would get off to something so humiliating. He wiped his hand and jammed three fingers into Dustin's pussy, feeling all his muscles judder frantically against the still-dry intrusion. How was he supposed to react to this? Surely, he couldn't fight back. He never could fight back, never ever, and so he laid there with his legs limply hanging from his hips resting on the edge of the table, the rest of his body feeling like every gear that made up his functionality were grinding to a halt. He couldn't form words in his head, and thus even if he wanted to speak, all that came out was babbled stammering nonsense, peppered with interstitial sobs and pleas for forgiveness or mercy or something else.

“You should be thanking me, Dustin.” Buzzo seethed through clenched teeth, his jaw clamped down so tight it was giving him a headache in his eyes. He tried to scratch with his nails at Dusty's pussy, though they were blunted too much to do anything more than rub unintentionally against what was presumably his spot, the way he jolted and whined in a way that seemed too pleasant to be altogether pain. Or maybe the ability to differentiate the ways in which people expressed their pain or pleasure was so shot by the torture he regularly enacted and had enacted against him, he just couldn't tell anymore. Not like it mattered. Not like any of this mattered compared to the suffering that Lisa faced. He could feel angry wet against his cheeks, probably from his eyes, but he didn't care.

“W-W-W-Wha-at?” Dusty stuttered, and his voice was thick with mucus and tears, it all sounded very wet. Almost as wet as his cunt, with fluid dripping down his legs and coating the other fingers of Buzzo's trembling hand.

To be questioned was a grave insult, and Buzzo yanked his fingers out with the reaction speed as if he touched a hot stove (hot lighter, hot matches, hot cigaerette cherry pressed into skin-) and he was acting more on carnal urges of rage when he pushed all three fingers back into Dusty's completely unprepared asshole, and felt more than heard the way he inhaled so high and tight and full his whole chest inflated and stayed that way, quick little jittering breaths trying to pull more air in.

“Doing some deep meditation, Dusty? Cut it out. I want you here with me. You don't get to go to your Armstrong-happy-place. In fact, you should be thanking me for this! Say thank you!” Buzzo hissed, tossing his head to try and get his sweaty blonde bangs out of his eyes to better see the other tween under him. He was shorter and stouter and probably physically lesser than him, but he held all the power now. He was tired of being dwarfed in height and might by the world around him. He was trying so hard not to make sounds like Dusty was making, little sobs or panicked breathing, and focused instead on bearing down inside Dusty's ass. He tried to thrust his fingers, and was met by the intense resistance of all his muscles contracting as tight and hard as he could, and suddenly, a wet gushing sound between the other boy's legs.

“What the-?!” He paused his hand movement if only to look bewilderedly down between the two, and for a second there was a sick swell of pride in his gut at the possibility of making him cum (something he wished so desperately to do for Lisa) but was only more disgusted with life, the universe, and everything within it when it occurred to him instead that the fluid was more yellow than initially expected, and didn't come exactly from the hole of Dusty's rubbed-raw pussy.

“Ew! What the fuck, Dustin?!” Buzzo would have shrieked, if not for wanting to keep his volume to something a little more contained. His voice was strangled and he tried to push his fingers in deeper, harder, rougher, but even despite his child rage he couldn't push past the resistance, and that only made him more indignantly pissed off. Even worse, the puddle on the floor was starting to get worryingly close to his feet.

“God dammit- I said you should be thanking me, not pissing on me, you piece of shit!” He kicked at Dustin's ankles, knowing it would be tender from the earlier day of Armstrong-style fighting practice. At least Dusty finally had the inspiration to cry out like a baby, though even that was hardly enough to cool Buzzo's boiling blood down at this point. He was disgusted and pissed off and Dusty was there and he was vulnerable and there was nothing else for Buzzo to take his child aggression out on. So he used Dusty, cause he was the only other person in the world who might have even the slightest idea of what he was going through. He wanted him to feel the way he felt about Lisa- Bernard was weak, and Lisa was there to take him inside herself and suck the marrow out for her own nutrients and spit him out as Buzzo, and Buzzo was hungry and angry and Dusty was there in a way no one else was there.

Maybe it was a part of himself deeper inside, past the roiling vexation and vindication for the world there was a softer, smaller part of him, something so miniscule and dwarfed by his other volatility that acknowledging it within himself wouldn't be possible for another 30 years. But it cried out within him against his cruel misery, and for all the subjective time experienced in the few seconds he stood there with three stubby fingers crammed inside the older boy's ass, he felt... pity. Guilty, almost. It stirred something deep and grumbling and with a sudden pull that he knew probably hurt, he removed his hand and stood impotently still for what felt like longer than a minute, staring down at Dustin and trying too hard or not hard enough to understand what on Earth was happening inside himself. Too many things, certainly too complicated for a young boy like Bernard to dissect- he wasn't good at that. He was good at dissecting real things, physical things, things with paws and claws and little whimpering sounds, things like Dusty, things like... Lisa.

He swallowed hard, feeling the fluid in his mouth thick like sand, and wiped his face with his hand not defiled with the inside of another boy's body. He hated the after feeling of touching someone and loved it and hated it and loved it and he didn't know what to do, because Dusty was still crying and he was still standing there, legs shaking in a way that if he had the courage to admit was all too similar to how Dustin's legs were shaking. He sighed with a noise that made an accidental pitch high in his throat and he knew Dusty heard it but he pretended he didn't because he didn't want to confront that in himself, and instead grabbed a healthy handful of his left cheek as if appraising him and said,

“Dusty. Get on the mat.” His voice came out soft, surprisingly so in a way to both little boys. The words hung in the air like stale sweat, heat drooling along their skin and Dusty had what was clearly a hard time righting himself off the table, standing straight, waddling over to the mats, but he managed with some great difficulty. It wasn't even the pain, he could take it, he was made to take it, but the humiliation. He couldn't stand up for himself, ever. When he got on the mat that already smelled of the sweat from their peers and Master Armstrong alike, he flopped onto his belly like a dead animal, making a sort of whining noise in his mouth. It made something inside Buzzo's gut, something tender like a steak pounded with a meat hammer was tender, shiver with an unidentifiable emotion. He came to the mat, and dropped to his knees without any sort of acknowledgement for the shock of impact that jolted up to his hips unpleasantly.

He looked down at the boy on the mat, blonde hair and pale skin and red private parts outlined with shiny blue plastic on all sides like a mural. A painting. A martyr- or something less than that. Dustin was less than all of them. And he had to know that. Over and over the message of inferiority had to be beaten into the young man's head until it was nothing but pink pulp and white bone and big, sad, blue eyes staring pathetically up at him. Like a puppy. Buzzo swallowed hard, and spat on his fingers which by now had become tacky with the drying fluid originally from Dustin's cunt. He wasn't sure how obvious it was at this point that he was just posturing. It was a lot harder to access his formulated sadism when Lisa wasn't around, whispering in his ear, pulling it out from deep inside his stomach and out his throat. She would lay all of them bare.

Without much thought, he jammed his now saliva-coated fingers into Dustin's pink hole, inhaling sharply through his nose. He could feel once again how all his internal muscles spasmed. Was something wrong with him? Even Lisa didn't react like such a baby, even when her insides were shredded and raw from her dad, Buzzo's activities, or her own masochistic hand. He didn't want to think about it too hard. In fact, he didn't want to think about anything anymore. He just wanted to feel; the battery acid in his throat; the spastic contractions against his fingers; the way air seemed to shudder in through his nose and out again his open mouth somehow ice cold, like he were in negative degree weather. He swore if there were less sweat in his eyes blurring his vision he would see his breath puffing out in big white clouds.

“God dammit, relax already.” Buzzo huffed, pushing more of his weight behind his hand as if an added forcefulness would make it any easier for Dusty to stop twitching. He managed to get another half-inch inside, and that was it. Something triggered, and Dustin made a dying-creature noise in his chest and a spurt of urine made small droplets on the floor as he tried to push himself up, and it wasn't until his shoulders jolted four times rhythmically that Buzzo realized he was about to throw up.

“What's gotten into you?!” He half-shouted, and grabbed Dustin's hip with his other hand to hold him in place- he looked like he was trying to physically crawl away from the intrusion. It wasn't gonna happen, not under Buzzo's watch, and he somehow wrangled Dusty into a doggy style position that seemed all too fitting. Piss was dripping down his legs with the force of him trying to fight off the nausea and roiling of his pelvic floor rebelling against being anally penetrated. Dustin certainly couldn't understand it- this was his first time, and he felt like he was completely out of control. Every movement of Bernard's fingers made another wave of oscillating sensations roll over him like it was drowning him in muscle contractions and a feeling of his digestive tract doing the worm. How else was he supposed to react? He couldn't fight off his fellow student. Not when he knew what he was going through. He would never know, completely, but he could certainly guess. In the very least, he divined that there was something seriously upsetting in Berny's home life. They were never friends, but Dusty wished they could be, even if that ship had long since sailed. What would Bernard do if he attacked back? If he ran away? Master Armstrong's dojo was his one safe place. He needed this. Even if the mats he was christened on were now being defiled by his own piss and bile. On hands and knees, back arching like a cat trying to push hair out of its esophagus, Dusty contemplated the quickly growing puddle of urine and watery stomach acid.

“Do you want this to be over, Dustin?” Buzzo asked, voice suddenly placid and empty, and his entire body trembled as he felt the fingers curl downwards towards his vagina, pushing all the nerve endings together and mimicking a sensation that Dusty could maybe pass off as pleasant. It was certainly the most enjoyable thing that had happened to him this night, in the grand scheme of things. He moaned, quietly, into his shoulder, eyes squeezed shut tight and body shut tighter.

“Y-Y-Ye-e-es, I- I- I- I- I wuh- want it to b-b-be over, puh- p- please...” Dusty sniffled.

“Then throw up.”

“W-What?”

“You heard me.” A sharp stab of three angry fingers, enough to make his pelvic floor tense up against his will and another thin dribble of urine. A disgusted, amused snort somewhere behind him. The moment hung in the air and Dusty realized as the seconds ticked by longer and longer than the last that Bernard wasn't going to stop unless if he did what he was told. 

So he adjusted his weight, leaning on his left hand, sinking down to his elbow, shifting everything into a slightly more tolerable position, and with his right hand, trembling in front of him, he tentatively stuck his index and middle finger into his mouth. He could taste salt. Sweat. The grooves of skin between skin of calloused fingerprint. He hated the taste. It made new tears stream down his already soaked-wet face. He hated being so weak. He wanted more than anything just for his friends and family to accept him. He would do anything, including jamming his fingers into his mouth like this with Bernard apathetically fingering his virgin ass.

It didn't take long. He had already had difficulty fighting against the retching reflexes to his pelvic muscles being violated the way they had been for however long this was happening to him. He sobbed around the mass of blood and bone and flesh and keratin in his throat, fingering at his epiglottis frantically until the rest of what little sat inside his tummy was coming up, and hunched over the way he was, gravity did the rest of the work he could not do more than the bare minimum of. All the sound in the building; the air vents; the breathing of two boys; the slap of skin against skin; all of it was replaced with the gagging, choking, wet noise of fluid spilling past Dusty's mouth and onto the plastic wrestling mats. He didn't know how many times it came up- every time he thought he was done, either the taste still in his mouth or the feeling of his own swollen windpipe triggered another wave, and he continued to vomit small mouthfulls of grey matter until he felt if Berny wanted more, he would have to personally reach down his gullet and take it from his shivering abdomen.

At some point while he threw up, Buzzo had removed his fingers and stood up, walked around to stare down at Dustin head on. He looked like a scientist, his apathetic stare through blonde bangs, hands in his pockets hooked by the thumbs; he overwhelmingly projected the image of a child alchemist who had crammed too many double A batteries down a dead dog's throat in hopes that it would revive the creature, so too he did he regard Dustin. He briefly had the thought to force the other boy to lick up his mess, but he was tired. He didn't want to play anymore. He wanted to go home. So he turned from the pathetic creature still half-hunched on the floor, pants and underwear clinging to one ankle, too afraid to wipe the dribble from his chin and too knowing of his place to look Buzzo in the eye.

“B-B-B-Buh... b... b... hh... w-wuh wait, puh- please wait...”

He only stopped at the door because he could hear Dustin speaking up in what surely he had to have thought was a very courageous move. He stood at the door, hand half-turning the knob. 

“What.”

A statement. Not a question. He was no longer in a good mood. He was weary, he felt like he'd been aged a hundred years and yet still remained a child.

“W- W- What d-d-d-do I d-do n- nn- now?” Dusty meekly inquired.

The question that most kids asked themselves every day when left alone without supervision. What to do now? Buzzo didn't want to think about it. He wanted to go home. He wanted to eat mac n' cheese. He wanted to stop thinking about the little blonde boy who caused him so much grief without ever meaning to. Buzzo opened the door, and stepped out into the cooling summer night air.

“Do whatever you want, Dustin.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested in commissioning me, please send me a private message to @fuck_wonderland on twitter!
> 
> My rates are $0.02/word, so a fic with 1000 words would cost $20. Feel free to reach out!
> 
> -
> 
> I drew pretty hard on my own experiences with Pelvic Floor Dysfunction, Sensory Processing Disorder, and IBS... XD life is hard when you're an anal fiend but you're disabled in a certain way that makes it extremely difficult to do it for more than, like, four seconds.


End file.
